Till the End
by Vega62a
Summary: Chapter three and a half of my fic, I Disappear. Tells the story of Eri's last night in Japan before leaving for London. Rated for language, explicit sexual references, and violence. And, you know, being dark as hell.
1. Part one

My first bonus chapter for I disappear—I have these in a lot of my fics, though most aren't available here on Effnet, since most of them are "bonuses" because of inappropriate content.

This one, though, is here. Rated M for sexual content, LOTS of language, and a little violence, but here. The last time Eri saw Harima prior to the events of I Disappear, and her last night in Japan, as well.

--

_It's not enough / it never is / but I will go on until the end_

_--_

Chapter 3.5

Until the end

17 July 2010 _do I still use that Japanese timekeeping system? _July 17th, 2010. _There._

_I could never tell anybody about this before. Not my closest friends; not Nakamura; not the parents, of course. Not even him, who most of it revolved around. I don't know if he remembered it or not. I heard later that he eventually checked himself into AA; maybe it was best for me that he hadn't at that point. _

_Or maybe he remembered all of it, and this is all just a waste of time. Maybe I'm not the only person on the planet who knows that this happened. _

_I wonder if I would even be here, in London, if that were true. If he knew, if I didn't think I had to conceal the whole thing, if I wouldn't have just said, you know what, fuck all of you, I'm staying here and doing whatever the goddamn hell I want, and see if you can stop me._

_Maybe. I do know that shame has never been enough of a reason to get me on my feet and running, and I was certainly ashamed, but I was also scared. Maybe that's why I kept my ticket. _

_Either way, I think I need to tell somebody. If I don't, I think I'll explode. Funny, this is the first thing I write in a diary that my first boyfriend gives me, and it's not even sort of about him; in fact, to keep that theme up, I won't even mention him here. _

_(Even in my own diary I pretend like I'm addressing somebody who gives a fuck I'm so fucking)_

_Two hundred and fifty eight words (I counted) and I've said the word "fuck" three times already. That's more than once every hundred words. Such a mouth I have on me. My mother would be so fucking ashamed. My father probably wouldn't give a flying fuck either way. _

_Three hundred and six words, and six "fucks." That's one every fifty-one words. I think I've said that word more times in the year and a half that I've been here than in all my time in Japan._

_I feel like I should tell this story._

_This is stupid. _

_I don't need anybody else to know. It's not even that big a deal. A high-schooler's stupid whatever the fuck (8) it was. Compared to the stuff I've done over here, it's nothing. I didn't even see his cock. That's what they call it here, a cock. Or a pecker. Prick. Plonker. I'm told Pillock was originally a word for it. I don't even know if they had a word for it back in Japan. If you were poking fun at its size, I guess you called it a peepee. Is that Engrish? I don't know._

_This is stupid._

_--_

25 July 2010 _I'm still using that notation. He doesn't like it. Fuck it. Fuck him. He doesn't like that I might have had a _crush _back in Japan. I didn't, but he thinks I did. I think he's jealous. He doesn't exactly have a marvelous peepee _(cock prick pecker)_ himself. Not that I'd know about anybody else's back in Japan. _(Why am I lying to myself? In a private diary of all places? I'm a fucking idiot) _I think it just makes him unhappy in general. That wouldn't surprise me._

_What am I doing back here? I have a book to write, why am I scribbling in this stupid fucking thing? Hastening carpal tunnel syndrome? Can you get that scribbling in a stupid notebook?_

_My headphones on my desk sitting on top of my ipod (the only luxury I kept from Japan, I'm such a fucking bougie; that's what they call them here) looks like a screaming face out of the corner of my eye. I think I'll need to move it. I keep looking away and then seeing it out of the corner of my eye. It's distracting and a little scary. It looks like that painting, _scream. _Can I really say that if I don't look straight at it? Maybe I'll use it. I don't write horror novels, but I'd like to. A small-time writer has a lot of freedom that way. _

_Maybe what I'm doing here is getting all my fuckawful writing out so that I can keep a decent prose style. _

_What the fuck did I go to university for, then? Japanese and English double-major, because I have to master that fucking writing system someday, and look where it got me. Why didn't I go out for math? I did that _fuck _thing in my head. Just factor 306 into 6 times 51 and cancel with 6. Does multiplication skill a mathematician make? Probably not, but I was good at it. I'm no good at this. I published a book, but so did He, and he's a fuckawful writer. _

_This time it's been 340 words, and I've used fuck 10 times. That's one fuck every 34 words. If that was my average when I was writing a novel, I'd never get any work done._

_Wow, that was dirty. I don't think I've ever made quite so explicit a dirty joke before. I mean, He and I _do _fuck a lot. He's a horny little bastard, and I enjoy it. _

_That sounds awful, huh. I lost my virginity riding a drunken college student with bad teeth, and about a second after he came, I threw up from the sheer volume of alcohol I'd put in myself that night. Get over it. My image of sex is not precisely romantic. I call it "realistic." _

_Once again, I speak to somebody who will never read this._

_Why am I writing it again?_

_The story._

_Stupid. Don't need to tell it, there's nothing to tell._

_Good bye, dear diary._

_--_

Fuck what day is it? Hell, I don't even know the hour, only that it's not light out and I have a plonker the size of his drunk. Dronk the size of his plunk. I think he had a big pecking. Maybe that was his cell phone ringing in my back. He had had a lot of to drin

_It's six in the morning and I've had a nice, refreshing vomit and a few hours of sleep. I feel better. It's the first of August, and I haven't written anything in a week and a half. Except in this thing. This thing has haunted me. Maybe it's haunted. Maybe it's taking pieces of my life and it's going to kill and replace me once it has enough. Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel. _

_I think it's time to get this out of my system. My writing is neater now, more cleaned up. I think my head's ready to get it out, and get it out right. The way my brain is moving right now, it's probably going to be like passing a kidney stone, but if it moves, it moves, and damn the pain._

_I always kind of wonder why I became a writer. Akira was the good writer of us. She had a talent that I could never hope to match, and what did she wind up doing? Buying the book store that she worked part-time at. With what money? She would never tell me. She was always a genius with money; maybe that's why she didn't go into writing professionally. I am living proof that there is absolutely no money in it, talented or no. Stephen King is just the exception that proves the rule, and all the writers in Hollywood, that stinking hellhole of shitty art, prove it just as well—they have _zero _talent, and they make more off one script than I will off of four books, royalty checks included. _

_Focus. This is hard._

_Okay. My last night in Japan. I will do this, and then I will finish _Precipitate, _and I will publish it and make next month's lighting bill with the advance so that I can see well enough to write something new afterwards. I will forget about it, because it's in the past, and there's no reason for it to come up now. It _hadn't _come up, until He gave me this diary. _


	2. Part two

I was the last one to leave. I think it's important to note this, because it contributed so very much to what happened that night. It would never have happened if Mikoto or Tenma or Akira had been in town; I wouldn't have resorted to hanging out with Hige.

Or maybe I would have. Knowing that you're spending your last night somewhere you love does strange things to you. You become oddly sentimental, and a lot of things you thought you hated don't seem so bad to you anymore. I guess Hige was one of them, or maybe it was just that he was half past tipsy by the time I met up with him at the bar.

_(Funny. Now that I look at it, this story will probably use fewer pages than all my bitching about having to write it did. Or maybe not. Depends on how much I set down in here.)_

As I said, by the time I had decided to leave, nobody else was in town anymore. Tenma had gotten a job, of all people, and Mikoto was taking summer courses; I had no idea where Akira had gotten to. I wanted to _do _something. To go somewhere. To not spend my last night in Japan in Japan, not in my western room staring out at Japan and wondering what Japan was like. I'd tried calling everybody, and all I got was well-wishes and apologies. Mikoto had a midterm the next day. Tenma couldn't make the drive because she wasn't allowed to miss work unless she was sick or her mother was already dead. (Dying, she said, wasn't good enough for those Nazis). Akira's phone yielded a flat, uninterested voice apologizing to me and telling me that _this phone is not currently in a service area. Please try again later._

Who did that leave? Who did I know well enough, who was I comfortable enough with, to spend my last night with?

Hige, of course. Through no fault of my own, I was intimately familiar with Hige, and I had become, in my own way, comfortable spending time with him over the past few years. Even by ourselves, for short periods at a time. Call me forgiving.

The last time I had seen him had been nearly half a year before, when Tenma had gathered everybody she knew (including a few of her work friends) together for some celebration or another. He hadn't looked quite the same then, either. It had been a little awkward, of course—what reunion _isn't _awkward, even between old friends? It's saying outright, "I have no time to see you anymore, so let's have a party about it!" But he had been…different. He often had a spot too much to drink when we saw each other, but that time in particular it seemed as though he was dead-set on plastering himself to the wall before the end of the first CD.

He hadn't changed much in that half-year; he'd only gotten worse. Is that really a change? I don't think so.

I found myself mildly nervous as the phone rang in my ear. Once. Twice. (This is stupid). A third time. (Why am I nervous? Why am I _calling?_) Fourth ring, and I started to close the phone, and just before I did, his deep, strangely reassuring voice came through: "'Lo," it said throatily, as though he'd been working on his booze long before I called. He hadn't been, but I learned later that his voice hadn't worked properly in quite some time. Something about a lot of drinking and screaming.

"H…" Why was I stuttering? Maybe it was the hoarse, half-dead quality of his voice. Maybe I was just feeling like shit. Probably the latter, but the former didn't help. "Harima?"

"That's who you dialed." Was he always so…bitter? It was strange, but he'd always seemed indefatigable to me. What was this? "Who's this?"

"Would it kill you to read your caller ID sometimes?" I snapped without meaning to. I always did things without meaning to around Harima. "I—"

"Oh. Princess. What is it?"

No, he was definitely not the same. He'd always been a little crass, but he'd never been deliberately rude before. Not like this. Harima was never precisely a gentleman, but…

He was a nice guy. That was what I remembered most of all, even if I would never admit it. He was a nice guy.

Not now, though. Not now, he wasn't.

"I…I'm leaving tomorrow." Outright. No pleasantries. _Were _there pleasantries between Harima and I? Probably not. "I …was wondering if you were busy tonight. I…" I found myself tapping my finger on the desk, and without thinking about it, I brought it down a little too hard and the nail cracked. I cursed to myself, but kept my mouth shut about it. "I was wondering if you and I could…maybe go out to a bar or something."

"Uh-huh." Disbelief. Not surprising. "What do you want, Princess?" So much anger. It was absurd. Was this even Harima I was talking to? I actually checked the display on my phone, just to be certain. "I can't imagine what you need from me, not with that butler less than twenty meters from you at all times."

For some reason, Harima had always been effective at making jibes about my family's money. Not that that money would help me soon—I wanted to tell him so, too, and I almost didn't—maybe I had been in Japan for too long, or maybe it was just my _good breeding, _

But then, this was Harima. Hige. The antithesis to _good breeding. _What the hell did I care?

I didn't, that's goddamn what. "Listen, you stupid bastard," I snapped at him. "I don't know if you were listening, but I'm _leaving _tomorrow. Going to England._ Without _Nakamura and _without _any money. I'm leaving tomorrow, and nobody's here tonight, because they're all out doing god knows what, and I'm goddamn asking you to come and pick me up and take me out somewhere and that's what you're _goddamn _going to do." I was breathing hard and my face was red, but that felt _really _damn good. I felt the first twinges of embarrassment burning in my chest, but I ignored them. Nakamura wasn't nearby—if he was, he'd have stepped in when I said his name. That meant nobody had heard me but him, and I think I got over being embarrassed about snapping at him a long time ago. You _had _to get over that, or you'd probably just kill him at some point. Stupid bastard.

Silence on the other side of the line for a minute. Just as I was beginning to think that maybe I'd pushed it too far—I hadn't; this was relatively mild compared to some of the things he'd deserved—and starting to consider an apology, his deep voice filled my ear again, this time less throaty and irritable, and more…thoughtful. I think that's a good word for it. "Why?" he asked.

"Why what? I don't feel like leaving without a hangover tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving?"

I blinked. It was a natural question, of course, but it still seemed out of place. "I don't want to talk about it," I said. It was the truth. I didn't. "But I'm leaving, and I don't feel like spending my last night in Japan cooped up drinking by myself, because god _damn _if I'm getting on that plane tomorrow anything short of comatose."

Silence again. I could practically hear the rusty old wheels in his head turning. What was he considering? If he would do it? No, if he was anything like the old Hige, he would do it, and if he wasn't, I didn't think I wanted to be anywhere near him anyway.

The silence drug on for almost a minute. I thought about hanging up. He wasn't going to do it. Something inside of him had changed, I could see that; something in him had become almost indescribably bitter, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn't want anything to do with him if that was the case—men driven to drink by their regrets were the worst kind of men there were. The most frightening. I didn't know it yet, but I would have more than my share of those later. I didn't need any now.

I made up my mind to hang up. I would bow out gracefully, but I would bow out. Just as I had determined precisely how to do this, gently, he spoke again: "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Are you sober enough to drive?" I asked, the thought only just occurring to me. "I'm not going anywhere with you if you're going to get us both killed. I'll just have Nakamura—"

"Yes, Ma'am?" Nakamura's voice drifted in from the crack in the door. I jumped and cursed to myself, then shouted, "Go away, Nakamura. It's nothing."

"Yes, Ma'am." I doubt he did, but I'd never catch him at it. He was too smooth, too quick. The things I'd heard about him at the Cultural Festival battle…they were a little scary, frankly.

"I'm fine. I've only had a couple," Harima said. This was not reassuring.

"A couple _what_?" I demanded. There was a harsh difference between a couple beers and a couple hard shots.

"It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't, you stupid goddamn—" I stopped myself, unable to believe that these things were actually coming out of my mouth. I was _never _this profane. Never.

"Do you want me to come or not?" he ignored it. He always did. It probably wasn't a big deal to him.

"I…" I sighed. "Yes. Please come over."

"Mm." A dull click, and the line went dead.

_(I guess I was wrong about that pages thing. I didn't think I would go any farther than this. I guess I could end it with, _and then he came over, and a few things happened, and the next morning I left for London where I lived miserably and productively ever after_, but I won't. I'll finish this. I think I have to. I was right, it _is _coming out like a kidney stone—it's already nine in the morning, and I've only put down a few pages—but I'll do it.)_

I supposed I should _put something on. _(Rich People for "dress up.") I mean, Hige was no Gentleman Suitor, but if he was taking the time to pick me up, shouldn't I at least put something into this mess I called my face?

Except it wasn't a mess. I looked into the mirror, and my complexion was fine. I had always been lucky—very little acne, good pores, eyes that highlighted themselves, that sort of thing—but I'd always dolled myself up anyway.

Fuck it. Not tonight. Last thing I needed was Nakamura giving me his bemused look when I showed up the next morning with raccoon eyes. Besides, I wasn't going out to get picked up, I was going out to

_(I almost wrote _spend time with him, _but then I erased it. Why is that, I wonder? I'm such a fucking liar.)_

get hammered into the floor. Jeans and a coat were enough for that. Hell, you could get drunk in your pajamas, for all anybody cared—and my friends and I had, often enough (during _the good times_)—so long as you paid for your booze and didn't make too much of a mess. I guess if you _did _make a mess, that was forgivable too, so long as you were pretty and wound up naked. That combination of looks and nudity forgave most anything in the world of Men. I had never needed that clear-all, but I might some day.

Even so, I _put something on._ Freshly ironed slacks, and a silky blouse that shouted _hey, I have goddamn nice breasts! _without adding, _come over here and get a piece of them, big boy_. Over that, a coat, since it was cold. The only pragmatic part of my outfit.

I waited for him by the door. The big, foreboding front door.

Waited for half an hour. His expected time of arrival. Nothing.

Waited for forty-five minutes. Nothing but a new appreciation for marble floors.

Waited for an hour. Nakamura appeared out of nowhere and asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I told him there wasn't, so he brought me a cup of hot tea with a little shot of whiskey. _To take the edge off, _he said coyly. Always coyly. I waited ten minutes and then drank it.

_He's not coming._

_Fucking bastard, he's not coming. He stood me up on my last fucking night here, he broke his fucking promise and I swear to god I'm going to strangle him if I ever see him again that son of a goddamn bastard whore—_

Somebody was talking from the other side of the door. The door was heavy and thick, so I could barely hear it, but it sounded something like, _how the hell do you open this goddamn thing._

In fact, it sounded a lot like that.

A second later, my phone rang from inside my purse. I fished it out easily, flicked it open, and before I could say anything, Harima's voice poured through, annoyed and slurred: "How the hell do you open this goddamn thing, Princess?"

I blinked, torn between enraged and dumbstruck. Torn between screaming at him and laughing at him. Torn between hating him and l

_(waetrjawektj the fuck is this you stupid cunt)_

helping him out. Maybe I should just leave him out there to freeze his sorry ass off.

Instead, I said, "The doorbell works, you know." In a voice as calm as I could manage—somebody told me once that when I was struggling to keep my calm, I sounded a lot like a serial murderer. Maybe that was closer than I wanted to admit.

"Eh?"

"The doorbell, you stupid bastard. Ring it." It occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, somebody could think of _stupid bastard _as my pet name for Hige.

"Just let me in!" he shouted. I heard him through the door and the phone, though the phone had a slight delay to it. It was kind of funny, in a pathetic sort of way, and I fought to keep myself from giggling. "I'm goddamn freezing out here!"

"Ring the doorbell, then."

"You little—"

"What?"

"Let. Me. In," he hissed, and this time I _did _giggle. Just a little. "You want to go somewhere, or not?"

It occurred to me that I probably didn't. He sounded drunker than hell, and all at once, my anger at him evaporated. He probably got lost getting here. It was the biggest house in this part of town, but I couldn't imagine him being able to find so much as his dick if he was this drunk.

"Come on, Hige," I teased. "Ring it. It's a big round button left of the door, you can't miss it."

"I _see _the goddamn doorbell, but you _know _I'm right out here, so why don't you—"

I lost it. I burst out laughing—full-out, clutching my sides, tears of mirth coming to my eyes.

_This _was the Harima I l

_(dont lie)_

had liked. The one that I didn't have to watch myself around. The one that I could tease and pester like I could tease and pester Tenma. The _fun _Harima. Hige.

There was silence on his end. After a moment, he said, almost as though simply reciting a line, "What are you laughing at, Princess?"

This only made me laugh harder. I nearly fell off of my chair, I was laughing so hard.

"Ma'am?" Nakamura's voice interrupted me, and I straightened up almost at once, suddenly shaking all over, as though I was frightened. Maybe I was. I fought to keep my face as hard as I could, and wondered if I could pass off the tears still flowing down my face as something. If he noticed, though, he gave no mention. Of course not. What did we pay him for, if not to mention? "Shall I get the door?"

My face screwed up again, almost by itself, and I guess I looked fairly ridiculous. I sputtered, to keep myself from cracking up again, and managed to get out, "Yes. Please."

"Ma'am." He walked quickly to the door, his polished shoes making the floor positively _sing, _and opened it without so much as a grunt of exertion.

Harima was, indeed, drunk. His gait was jilted, unsure of itself, but his face was almost exactly as I remembered it: Smooth, strong-jawed, and

_(even here, it feels a little weird writing this)_

handsome. He no longer wore his sunglasses, so I could see his eyes, too—they were almost childish, in a way. Very cute. I felt something inside of me _move _for the first time in a _long _time.

_(I think I almost took him right there. Almost just went to him and stripped and took him there on the marble floor that sang under Nakamura's feet. I can't write that. Cross it out, slut.)_

"What the _hell _was—" he stopped when he saw my face. Nakamura vanished, and then it was just he and I.

What did he see in my face that made him stop? I don't know, but I can hazard a few guesses. I had had some whiskey already, and frankly, I'm a small girl. I don't hold my liquor well. I held myself back plenty fine, and the thought only vaguely occurred to me

_(liar im a)_

but whatever he saw there, he shut up quick.

"Hey," he said. "Princess."

"Shut up, Hige," I said. "And we're not going anywhere tonight. Come up to my room with me."

Looking back on it, I can see how he misinterpreted me. It was pretty stupid.

Looking back on it, I can see how drunk he was. No. How miserable. How bitter. He'd never have tried that otherwise. Never have _done _it otherwise. He didn't even like me, not even a little bit. But like I said before, there's nothing worse than a drunk, bitter man. Nothing.

We got up to my room, where Nakamura had cleverly placed a bottle of _o-sake _and a few smaller flasks which, upon examination, were full of whiskey; beside them were a pair of small glasses. I sat down, and Harima sat down next to me; _fell _is a better word, maybe. I smelled him and realized that he was more than a little tipsy; he was positively _stupid. _It was surprising, but also a little scary. I wondered how he'd gotten here at all without killing himself.

What happened next was a complete blur. I poured myself a shot of whiskey, and then poured one for Harima. I was thinking up something to say, some bitter little toast about _fucking your life up _or something, but Harima raised his glass to his lips and downed it in the way you only did if all you were doing was waiting for the next one. A little put-off, I followed suit (since I was, after all, only waiting for the next one—that was how you got yourself shitfaced, right?) and reached for the bottle to pour another.

I guess the rest of that night could be attributed to his sunglasses, or the lack thereof. If I hadn't seen what I had seen in his eyes, I might never have even left. I might have

_(just taken him right there let him fuck me until)_

done something I would regret.

He grabbed my arm, still as strong as the first time he had, on the street, half a decade ago. I looked at him, a little scared, but more apprehensive. He looked back at me; here is where the lack of sunglasses decided my fate.

As he moved towards me, silent, I did not see in his eyes what I wanted to see from a man kissing me. (Though admittedly, I would see it many more times from men that I actually _did _fuck). I saw not love, nor affection, but _hunger. _The kind of hunger you only got from a bitter, drunken man. The worst. He kissed me, and I froze, my eyes open and staring straight into his, also wide open. His breath tasted sour, like he'd thrown up earlier that evening, a nauseating taste that overpowered the bitter taste of whiskey. His lips were big and soft, yes, but dry. Cracking. His arm still gripped my right hand.

I think, if I had just closed my eyes, maybe I could have just kissed him back. Maybe I didn't even want to, but I was feeling pretty goddamn shitty that night—you'd be amazed what comfort physical contact can bring, even from a man you l

hate.

Instead, I brought my other hand up and slapped him hard. Damn hard. His head jerked off to the side, and I pulled away from him, and then stood up and stepped back, ready to scream. Nakamura could take him, especially fruity as he was tonight.

I didn't, though, because all I saw in his eyes then was sadness. Not anger, nor even the bitterness that so plagued this poor bastard. Just … sadness. The kind of sadness you got after you did something you knew you would regret. Something stupid that you understood completely why you did.

I knew that he would hate himself for doing it. Things done while drunk and bitter only made one more bitter.

I…

Somehow, I didn't want that. I sat down, and said, almost from obligation, "If you think I invited you here to get in your pants, Hige, you're wrong."

He said nothing, only began to stand to leave—I say _begin _because it seemed a terrible challenge to him.

"But," I said quickly, stopping him in place. "I'll forgive you that, just this once. _If _you apologize."

I think it was the only time he ever apologized so quickly and easily—I think it was, maybe, one of the only times he was genuinely sorry about something.

Again, the old Hige. The one who was not precisely a gentleman, but a nice guy, all the same; who treated women with a kind of begrudging respect.

I could forgive that old Harima.

I did. And then we drank. I don't remember much else.

When I woke up the next morning, he had his arms wrapped around me, spooning me from behind. I took a moment to savor how he felt on my back—he _was, _as I said, a very handsome man—and then previous nights' drinking hit me like a truck. We were on my bed, but fully clothed. I left about two hours after that, exactly as I'd wanted: Chugging aspirin, clutching my head and trying not to vomit, and…

Happy.

Happy.

I wonder if he remembers.

Probably not.

I think that's okay.

--

Akira sent me an email at 41,000 feet. The plane had a wireless LAN connection, and I've found that the best remedy for a hangover which does not involve sleep is staring uselessly at a computer screen, so I got it almost immediately. It said something to the effect of this:

_I'm very sorry to have missed your call, but my cell phone had no service where I was last night. You'll be in the air by now, so I can't call you, since phones are forbidden on international flights. _

_What I need to tell you is this:_

_Harima is in a bad place right now. I'll be calling his publisher shortly to recommend he check himself into A.A., but for now, you need to understand that Harima drinks himself near to death as often as his tab will allow it. Alcoholism seems almost too mild a term. I think he'll get better, and hopefully you caught him at his worst time. For now, though, understand that if he did something you found reproachable, it may be due to his present psychological disorder, which, I believe, results from a heavy bout of depression. I wanted to warn you yesterday, but as I said, my phone had no service—those who are depressed occasionally act out-of-themselves, and Harima has it bad. Please excuse him. _

_Have fun in London. I'll call._

_--Akira_

She wrote it as though he was her child. I wondered how she knew precisely so much about what she knew, but thinking on it was useless, both due to my extreme lack of sleep and the rabid animal inside my skull, trying to claw its way out.

I don't think I needed the email. I think I understood already.

And in any case, I wasn't complaining. I think I got what I wanted before I left; not the blazing hangover, though I certainly got that too.

I think I got a reason to leave, and maybe, one day, come back a better person.

_--_

_What kind of sentimental shit is _that _at the end? I ended _Resolute _on a sappy note too. Maybe it's some defect of mine. Oh well. It's out. Passed. Akira called me about two months later to tell me that she'd managed to check Harima into rehab through his publishing office. Apparently the idiot draws manga now. Figures. She told me that if I came back now, that he would seem more himself. I told her I didn't know what she was talking about. I think she laughed at me, but I'm not certain; Akira is not precisely a light, fluffy sort. _

_I think I'm okay now._

_Thanks, Lover, for getting me this. I think I needed it._

_No, scratch that._

_I'll thank you later tonight. For now, I'll ease my aching wrist for a few hours, and then I'll do exactly what I came here to do:_

_I'll tell a story worth telling._

_--_

A/N: Fuckall, that was long. I know it seemed incredibly dark and desolate, especially with Harima, but in fairness, this was at his lowest point; as low as he got, and Eri took the brunt of it. I think that says something about Eri's resoluteness as a person, to be able to stare into such desolation and come out of it okay, and, just maybe, still in love.

Maybe.

I hope you enjoyed this! Read the School Rumble forum (of FFnet) for information on other bonus chapters like this!


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